Decline and Fall
by FigureofDismay
Summary: Liz Keen's life has not made sense since Red Reddington appeared in it, but her reality will grow stranger still before it begins to become clear. It starts with a tip on a government agent turned leak, but the case soon has deeper implications - about both Red's mission and certain darker forces at work. Red/Liz pairing fic. Full summery inside. Cross posted on AO3.
1. Beginning, With Such Small Stirrings

Summery:Liz Keen's life has not made sense since Red Reddington appeared in it, but her reality will grow stranger still before it begins to become clear. It starts with a tip on a government agent turned leak, but the case soon has deeper implications - about both Red's mission and certain darker forces at work. Red seems determined to win Liz's trust, and with resurfacing suspicions about Tom and mounting tensions at work, she's hard pressed to continue to resist his concern. She must come to grips with her new reality, and face strange truths about a life she thought she knew. Canon placement: begun just after 1.08, set a month or two after and will not be taking 1.09 & 1.10 (or later) directly into account. This will be pairing fic.

Notes: Please be aware that this is a story in progress. I have some of the infrastructure laid out, but these chapters are lengthy and will be spaced out a bit, but I'm working away and this will not be abandoned i promise! Please bear with me. I'm doing quite a bit of world building and keeping my fingers crossed that i don't get too badly jossed!

This is and will be a slow burn, but hopefully satisfying Red/Liz fic - I am a whole hearted supporter of a wary and feisty Liz + a dark but honorable Red. I think all the struggle and uncertainty only makes for a sweeter resolution, don't you? In any case, if Red/Liz is not your cup of tea, you are now warned. :)

Many thanks to my Beta, LovelyLittleFreckle, thank you so much my dear! 3

Disclaimer: any character you recognize and the world itself is not mine, no infringement is intended.

* * *

"We're going to have to do something about your poker face, Lizzy," he said from where he was reclined luxuriantly in a tufted leather Eames chair and ottoman, studying some document.

Aside from an enormous teak coffee table in front of what was likely the sofa, this chair was the only piece in the room not shrouded by dust cloths. The drapes were pulled back from the tall picture windows and the anemic winter sun poured in, making Reddington look rather pale and nearly ordinary. None of his little entourage was present, although Mr. Grey had shown her to the sitting room and she'd seen a glimpse of Dembe focused intently on a computer in what might have been a dining room before it was filled up with equipment.

His remark was an opening salvo and it didn't immediately register as Liz took in the setting for today's meeting. "My poker face," she repeated.

"Yes. You're a special agent, Lizzy, I assumed they would have given you some training in subterfuge - I believe I remember something to that effect in my long lost former life." His tone was smooth and jovial, he peered up at her with that insouciant smirk that always made her hackles rise.

"You may recall my training was in behavioral sciences and profiling, before this… detour of yours."

"And you were remarkably proficient in that field ," he put aside the file he'd been pursuing when she'd walked in. "However, our work will bring us into situations where you will need to blend in and react seamlessly at a moment's notice. I know it's something like a trial by fire for you, but you can't just stumble in and gawk around you like a country tourist in the city. Don't get me wrong, Lizzy, it's a charming expression on you, delightful in fact - ah, and there it is right now."

"Now, hang on," she tried to interject. Liz realized she was rather gawping at his sheer audacity and tried to school her features, her cheeks prickling hot.

"But these aren't amateurs I'm leading you to, and neither am I. It will look very strange if it seems I've suddenly taken on an associate who is so obviously wet behind the ears."

"For one thing I think I've been relatively professional given the impossible situations, and for another I never asked for you to involve me in your bizarre machinations."

"No, I know. And though you don't believe me, I am sorry about that. But it's only your safety I'm thinking about. You must simply cultivate a stronger sense of sang froid." He rose from the chair and set to peeling back the dust cloth from the long, low, rather austere looking sofa. "Have a seat, Lizzy, I'll just tell Grey we'd like coffee, won't be a moment."

"Anyway, I thought you had information for me," called Liz as he slipped from the room, "About the Dearborn leaks?" But there came no response.

Liz stood for a moment, indecisive, and then perched at the edge of the dove grey leather seat. The sitting room was large, cavernous almost. It, and in fact the whole house seemed to be designed in that scandinavian modern style that was so popular in the 50s and 60s. Not the cheesy version she knew from old sitcoms, but an airy, refined version that spoke of real money, all timber framing, white plaster, glass and dark wood floors. Beyond the enormous windows, the yard was wooded in a landscaped sort of way, with no neighbors in sight. A light dusting of soggy looking snow lingered in the shady places though no snow had fallen in the city, that she had seen. It had been a long way out of her way to come out here, Liz hoped that Reddington's promise of information hadn't just been a ruse to get her to sit for a scolding. She'd taken the morning off work to attend to his summons, the imperious bastard, although she she supposed there wouldn't be much work if their source of intel didn't feel like playing ball.

True to his word though, he was back shortly carrying a black lacquer tray with a delicate coffee service in celadon green. He set the tray on the table with his usual smooth grace and nary a clatter of porcelain and seated himself next to Liz. Rather nearer than she would have chosen, near enough that his elbow brushed hers when he adjusted his jacket. She considered scooting over and away, but it was a concession she was too stubborn to make. After all, his company was often irritating but hardly distasteful. Besides, from this close distance she could smell his sweet, subtle cologne and it was refreshing in the distinctly musty air of the place.

"I must apologize for the state of the house, you've caught us mid move," he said as though she'd dropped by on an unannounced social call and not because he'd summoned her. "Still, you must admit it's a lovely place. It belonged to an old friend. We didn't part on the best of terms, I'm sorry to say, but he left it to me in the end. In memory of the good ol' days, he said, but I suspect it was partly to do with some… things he was storing that he didn't want in the wrong hands. He told me that, even as adversaries, there was no one he trusted more to keep the place in working order and not sell it off for one of those atrocious developments so beloved by suburbanites." As he spoke he went through the ritual of pouring the coffee and milk, apparently unwilling to talk shop until it was done.

Stalling, she thought. Reddington liked to keep her attention for as long as he could.

Steam was visibly rising from the cups in the chill room. He paused with the silver tongs poised over the sugar bowl, which was filled with lumpen, golden brown sugar cubes. "Still avoiding sugar are we, Lizzy?"

She stomped on the urge to ask him how he'd known about that little attempt at healthy eating. Asking was part of the game and she didn't feel like playing. "No," she said firmly, "I'll take two."

He smiled at her contrariness in a way that made her want to fidget as he served the two cubes as asked, but she accepted her cup with what she hoped was a look of bland professionalism.

"All this boils down to," he continued, "Is a lot of dust, a ponderous amount of unpacking and a decrepit furnace that will need replacing. I've decided to make this my home base for the time being, in spite of it all. It's a comfortable distance from you lot, and there are some truly fond memories with these walls," he glanced around for dramatic effect but his expression was more smug lasciviousness than nostalgia.

Liz hid her scowl with a sip of her coffee. It was rich and strong, almost citrusy, if a trifle sweet. "I'll be sure to let Cooper know where you'll be. However, this doesn't have anything to do with the leak. Do you have information or don't you?"

"I think you know by now that I always have information. But first things first, Lizzy, I would like some indication from you that you understand how important it is that your endearing emotional honesty doesn't give away the game."

"When have I ever given away the game? You've thrown me into all sorts of strange and dangerous situations and we're all still here."

"You've announced yourself as FBI to three of my acquaintances and you've walked into multiple situations and proceeded to look visibly shocked at the goings on." Reddington turned to face her directly, his knee bumped hers briefly.

Under the intensity of his gaze, Liz had a hard time blustering through and refuting this. In the barest fact, what he said was true. She had tried to ply her FBI credential on more than one occasion to get information, and she had walked in to find Reddington in meetings with strange and surprising characters. There was the housewife laundering money, the little old english jeweler who dealt in passports and black market antiquities on the side, a glamorous older socialite who was handing off a filthy sum of money in a transaction, the details of which Liz never actually learned. There had been no real consequences to these encounters, the parties involved seemed to be too beholden or cowed by Red to question her presence even if she seemed out of place. As for trying to use the weight of the Bureau to their advantage, not only was it a part of her training, it did usually work and when it hadn't, Reddington had been able to talk fast enough to right the situation before anything got out of hand. Perhaps not her proudest moments, but it was it was hardly Reddington's place to reprimand her, she was supposed to be his handler not the other way around.

"Maybe if you furnished me with details, as you supposed to do as an informant, rather than leading me in blind I wouldn't have to play catch up all the time," she sniped back after a hair too long a pause to collect her thoughts.

"I was pretty sure you knew the name of the game was 'Catch Red Reddington's bad bad friends,' Lizzy, and that game will be over very quickly if my acquaintances start talking and it becomes widely known that I'm working with US government agents. So at the very least, stop identifying yourself as FBI to anyone who will hold still long enough, alright?" his tone was infuriatingly condescending with a hard, scathing edge underneath.

Liz set her cup and saucer down to save herself the temptation of flinging it at the asset. "If my performance in the field is so very annoying to you, maybe you could find some other poor agent's life to manipulate beyond repair." As soon as she said it she knew it was a pointless bit of melodrama, he had made it clear no other agent would do, if she wasn't there to work with he would never have turned himself in. This was obvious even though she didn't understand his reasoning. "Anyway, what the hell did you think was going to happen? You're involving the FBI and the CIA in your crusade, whatever it is. You're going down a list and having us pick people off using your information. At the very least, aren't your criminal buddies going to think the feds are onto you? Aren't they going to catch on at some point and sever ties before you can bring them down?"

Reddington sighed and brushed his fingers across his forehead, sipped his coffee, turned his face back to the window, apparently organizing his thoughts. The tension seemed to leave him, his posture easing towards resigned. The early December day was finally beginning to lighten up beyond the glass, the sun taking on a warmer hue. Liz retrieved her cup, feeling the cold of the room despite her coat, and settled in to the couch a little more. The coffee was far too nice to let it go to waste.

Despite herself, she could never maintain a head of steam where Reddington was concerned, not while talking to him, not while sitting comfortably next to him. He always found a way to put her at ease, even as he set out to wind her up again. He was controlling and condescending and much of him was made of threat and power, and yet not one ounce of that threat had ever been directed at her, not even in play.

"I've always known that this would be the endgame for my little organization, Lizzy," he sounded tired, lost in thought, "I have no delusions on that score. I have amassed wealth enough to live very comfortably for the rest of my days, even if I live to a ripe old age. I have also amassed enough enemies that living to such an age will be something of a miracle, so i don't intend to retire without putting some things in order. I have made my business as a man with nothing left to lose but the truth is, there are still some things, some people I would see protected. And the people on my list - they cannot be allowed to continue. They are a threat to everyone, even on my side of the law, and I don't intend to disappear into the sunset until they are dead or in prison and no longer a threat. Make no mistake, Rome will burn, Lizzy, but not before the right moment, and certainly not with you and I trapped inside," he caught her gaze, his face sharply intent, "Do you understand what it is I'm saying?"

"I - yes, I understand," she wanted add that she could only understand in the very broadest sense because he was still keeping her in the dark about practically everything, even those details that seemed like they would be personally important to her, but it wasn't the moment. She understood well enough what he meant. Don't rock the boat too much before the job is done, or they would all regret it. She wondered if she was one of the people he meant to protect, or if she was just a means to an end. He talks like a man with a terrible secret, she thought, he talks like a man dying. But surely that's not it, Red was far too strong and vital to be ill. Perhaps he had simply grown weary of the terrible game, if what he hinted was true, it was never his choice to begin with. What she said was, "Do you know you have a tendency to speak in paragraphs?"

Reddington barked a startled laugh and grinned at her. It was a fond grin. "Yes. Verbosity is a great weakness of mine, I'm sorry to say."

Liz shook her head and smiled in exasperation. "Always an answer for everything."

* * *

They sat in companionable silence for a time, sipping their coffee. He plied her with a plate of wonderfully soft and buttery shortbread cookies from the tray. When she remarked on them, he smiled and told her Dembe had made them. Liz peered over at him skeptically, sure he was pulling her leg.

"You don't believe me? Well, the man does present a rather stern exterior, I grant you. But he doesn't always sleep well. He says he finds it soothing to bake in the middle of the night."

"Really?"

"Ask him yourself if you don't believe me. Or better yet, let him know you enjoyed the biscuits on the way out. I'm sure he'd appreciate it."

Liz nodded but held her tongue, still not sure if she believed him. She couldn't quite process the image of tall, handsome, deadly Dembe up to his elbows in flour. Maybe, she thought, I mean who knows? We all need a hobby.

Eventually, Reddington retrieved the file he'd been reading and handed it to Liz. "The Dearborn leaks," he began, "Your government has a real mess on its hands with this one. And so soon on the heels of Edward Snowden. I'm willing to bet many a senior operative in the Agencies will be upping their blood pressure meds in days to come." he looked wickedly pleased with this idea. "But unlike Snowden, an altruist interested in a grab at fame and an excuse never to see his girlfriend again, Wendell Dearborn is a ruthless opportunist. Now that he's made a name for himself on the international stage, he means to sell his secrets to the highest bidder. I that folder you will find information about the likely high bidders. One of them is a name on my list, though not one I'd planned to deal with yet. None of them are people you will want in possession of state secrets," Reddington took up his coffee again, settling in for the lecture. "I don't have a full picture yet. Dembe has been monitoring a secure feed Dearborn has been using to spread tastes of the information he is selling. He claims to have a list, hundreds of names long, of agents in the field."

"My god."

"Yes. I may not agree with the operations of the Agencies, but exposing the foot soldiers for them to be picked off one by one, that's just dirty pool."

"I'm going to need the information on the secure feed. I'm sure the tech team can trace it back to Dearborn himself."

"I'm sure he's in transit at the moment. With an eye to ending up in South America or China, some country that would be happy enough to shelter him in return for getting one over on the good ol' United States. You should be asking yourselves why he hasn't been spotted in any airports or border crossings."

"You think he's on a private jet somewhere? Or he's hunkered down somewhere for the time being?"

"I'm not here to do your job for you, Lizzy, simply pointing out it's an interesting problem." he shrugged, with that air of casual indifference that seemed specifically designed to wind her up. "The most expedient way to secure the information would be to set up some intermediary to win the bidding yourselves, keeping it all in house as it were."

"I'm pretty sure no one will like the idea of paying off a man wanted for treason, even we do catch him afterwards." She began flipping through the folder, skimming the information therein. Red had neglected to tell her which of the persons mentioned was the one on his blacklist, she realized. probably by design.

"If you're going to let your rigid, law enforcement morals hamstring you, it makes no difference to me. However I would caution Harold and those to whom he answers that going in with heavy boots to mop up the other bidders, even the one on my list, before you've got your man in hand will send the rats running. Even breathing too heavily in that direction may alert Dearborn, the man seem far too well connected for a man on the run, and he does know how you do business. Can't lose another one into the eager hands of the Russians now can you?" Reddington's jovial tone made it clear that, as much as he would prefer to keep Dearborn's information out of the wrong hands, he would find such an outcome amusing. Such dark humour spoke of a man used to deadly stakes and possessed of an ability to stay above it all. Sang Froid, she supposed, such as he suggested she develop. Well, no thanks to that, she didn't wish to be that jaded just yet.

"Catching criminals is what we do for a living," she huffed "We do know how it works."

Red didn't dignify this with an answer, just fixed Liz with a wry look. It was was a wry look that very clearly said 'you certainly wouldn't have caught me if I hadn't walked up to your front door and knocked' and dared her to deny it. She didn't.

"What isn't clear to me in all this," he said, returning to the topic at hand, "Is the answer to the question that will be the focus of the inevitable internal inquiries - was Dearborn turned, and for some specific purpose, did he have some kind of personal epiphany, or we he corrupt from the beginning?" he paused to consider for a moment and then seemed to shrug it off, "Ah, well, if you lot manage to bring him in I'm sure you'll get the chance to ask him. Of course it's also possible that there's more to this than meets the eye."

"Are you hinting you know more background on this than you're letting on?"

"Me? Withhold information from my favourite agent? Certainly not," he gave a wry grin. "But I've been in business long enough to know that when a set of circumstances doesn't feel right, there is always good reason."

"I'll keep that in mind." Liz wasn't sure in the least that Reddington wasn't keeping something back so he could reveal it later in a dramatic moment, or ploy to get his way. However there was no convincing him to reveal anything he didn't want to, she'd learned that much about him at least. "I should take this information to the team." Liz closed the folder and tucked it into her bag.

"Of course. I'll show you out, we'll check in with Dembe."

He led her through the dim but spacious hallway between the living room, front entry, and other unknown depths of the house. Just off the foyer to the other side was the dining room, which had been taken over with computer equipment and unpacked boxes. Red seemed to be in earnest about settling in for a while. She wondered how he felt secure enough in his position with the FBI and with his underground associates to make a move toward semi-permanence. She also wondered what had become of the Hempstead house. She had liked that house, it had seemed warm and opulent where as this one felt both boldly elegant and austere. this was hardly the time to ask so she put it from her mind.

The dining room was grand under all the clutter, long and narrow and bright from a tall bank of windows that overlooked an overgrown side garden. There were monitors, computer towers, and a printer set up on the dark, massive table. Dembe was perched at the edge of one of the high backed chairs, leaning over the keyboard, chin in hand to peer at the only active monitor.

"You're going to give yourself a backache that way, my friend," said Reddington, announcing their presence.

"Ah, Raymond," he stretched and settled back more comfortably, "You have good timing. He's posted the time of the auction, details to be announced."

Liz stepped forward and peered over Dembe's shoulder at the digital countdown clock that was ticking away on the screen. Two and a half days, just about, until the bidding. It was not a large window in which to catch Dearborn before he was away with money in hand, heading so far under ground he might as well be a character in A Journey to the Center of the Earth. Of course there were plenty of people in other departments and other agencies on the hunt for this guy, it wasn't all down to Cooper's team. It never would have been their problem at all if Reddington hadn't called them up saying he had valuable information on the matter, for the ears of Lizzy Keen. She was sure that these small tidbits weren't what he'd meant, he seemed to be stringing them along for now, or maybe she'd been right in the first place, and it was an excuse to get her to listen to his lecture. She was holding tight to her temper for the moment.

"I don't suppose the clock is something we can trace…?" asked Liz.

"Unfortunately, no. It is a simple file, only connected to the image host," said Dembe. He closed the window with the clock, returning to what looked like a message board.

"Is that where Dearborn is posting? Can you send the address to the tech team at headquarters?"

Dembe glanced at Red for confirmation and then nodded, "Of course, Agent Keen. If you give me the email, I will send it along. I'm sure he is posting on other boards as well, this is just the first one I was able to access."

"Right, well thank you, in any case." She pulled out her notebook and after a moment's thought and consultation of her phone's contacts list, she put down the email of that soft spoken but apparently brilliant tech guy she'd worked with a couple of times, Aram.

Just then Grey appeared, in that mysterious and unobtrusive way he had, and murmured to Reddington that "a certain person has made contact, Sir, if you want to take the call."

Red sighed lightly. "Ahead of schedule. I must take this call, Lizzy, but I will be in contact with you soon, rest assured." He gave her his most charming smile and before she could formulate a response he was heading after Grey to take this mysterious phone call. Twice in one meeting, she thought, he sets new records in aggravation every day.

"Well," said Liz, nodding in the direction Red had gone,"I guess you get used to that, working with him."

"Eventually," said Dembe with a faint smile, "If you value your blood pressure."

"Right. Thanks again. I have to head out, they're waiting on me at the Post Office."

"Good afternoon, then, Agent Keen," he said politely before turning back to his work on the computer.

Liz got as far as the front hall before a thought occurred to her. She retraced her steps. "Dembe," she said hesitantly, "Is it true you baked those shortbread cookies?"

"I did indeed. Does that surprise you, Agent Keen?" he turned to face her where she stood in the doorway.

"No, I -" she blushed a bit, feeling she'd put a foot wrong, "Yes, actually, I guess."

Dembe smile goodnaturedly. "Sometimes, if you are restless in the middle of the night it's nice to do something productive, don't you agree? Good for peace of mind."

"I'll have to remember that," she said, thinking of all her sleepless nights recently, "Anyway, you might have missed your calling, the were delicious."

"Thank you," he leaned in conspiratorially, "I am surprised he saved you any. Raymond has a terrible sweet tooth."

Liz grinned, surprised. "I'll have to keep that in mind, too," she said, thinking rather nonsensically of bribing Red with confectionaries like a small child to get information. "See you later, Dembe. And call me Liz, will you? He certainly doesn't stand on ceremony."

"No, he never does," he said, "Good afternoon, then, Liz."

Liz gave a small wave and headed back out into the real world.


	2. A Faint Alarum

**Author's Note**: Hello all, hope you had happy holidays, or at least a less stressful ones than mine ;). Here is chapter 2 at long last! My hope is that 3 will come more quickly now that I have more groundwork in place. Oh, and Tom Keen warning for the end of the chapter, but nothing objectionable, I promise! your reviews and follows and favourites are truly appreciated and keep me motivated! And I don't mean that as blackmail, just simple gratitude. I love this fandom you guys. 3

* * *

The debriefing at the Post Office was, as usual, an uncomfortable thing. Liz stood straight and reported the meager pieces of information to Cooper, who listened stern-faced and impassive.

"While unsettling, this doesn't exactly seem like groundbreaking intel - I'm sure our analogues at the NSA already have this information." Cooper thumbed through the dossier for a time, "Did Reddington at least tell you which of these likely bidders was on his list?"

"No, Sir, I think he means to keep that to himself for now. He did say he hadn't planned to move on that name yet."

Cooper frowned and tossed the file to his desk. "Tell me, Agent Keen, in your professional opinion, does Reddington have anything real to offer us on this case or is he just wasting time?"

"It's hard to say, Sir. He's tricked us before, but even so, I'd say he's got information he's not willing to share yet. He seemed to be hinting that there may be something suspicious about Dearborn's escape plan. He said we should question why it is there hasn't been any sighting of him in any transport hubs or boarders - come to think of it, any sightings of him at all since the last webcast," she thought for a moment, realizing that Reddington had been implying more than she'd realized at the time. She had to learn how to better pick up the cues. His vague pronouncements, the intensity of his presence took up too much her attention when she interviewed him, and she had to learn to not let it be a distraction. He clearly thought she could and should be working some of these puzzles out on her own, and she liked to believe she was perfectly capable of doing so. "I mean think about it, we were able to track his progress mostly through reported sightings up until 5 days ago, are we really comfortable thinking he's suddenly gotten so much better at covert movements?"

"What are you suggesting, Agent?"

She shrugged slightly, uncertain quite what to make of this line of thought. It opened up some possibilities, that was certain. "I'm not sure yet, Sir, but I think he must met up with some help. Well connected, practiced help."

"Not, you're certain, Reddington's help?" Cooper watched her, stiffly neutral.

"No, Sir, Reddington seemed to view Dearborn and his tactics with genuine distaste. And his interest seemed considered rather than immediate." She was certain about this despite Red's past duplicities, he lived by his own strange, twisted, but strong moral code and he would never condone Dearborn's actions. Or at least not all of them, the full depths of his treason, Red seemed amused enough about how much of a nuisance Dearborn had made himself to the Intelligence community.

"Well, it's a theory, anyway," said Cooper, "One I'm sure we'll look into. But we'll start with the names from the bidders list, it's possible that one of them may be giving to Dearborn as well."

"One more thing, Sir, Reddington suggested we enter into the bidding ourselves through an intermediary, try to win back with information ourselves so it's doesn't fall into the wrong hands," she paused to gage Cooper's receptiveness to the idea. He didn't look at all thrilled and she didn't blame him. She realized she should try to distance herself from the idea so as not appear too morally pliable. "I don't like the idea of funding this guy, Sir, of course. But the list of agents alone is far too dangerous for -"

"Yes, I do grasp the gravity of the situation, Agent. A failsafe we will consider, as a last resort." He said this dismissively, Liz was willing to bet no plans for this last resort would be put in place for this last resort, at least on their end. Maybe the joint task force would. The couldn't work directly with the team officially investigating this case because between Red's involvement and the fact that the Post Office team wasn't supposed to officially exist, coordinating operations would be prohibitively complex.

"Work with Agent Malik, find out if her colleagues have heard of the people in this file. And check with tech to be sure they're onto the feed Reddington's man found. Then I want a full workup of Dearborn's profile, a prediction of his likely next moves," he pinned her with a severe look, "I'm sure I don't need to impress upon you the importance of not letting this one slip through our fingers."

"Yes, Sir," she said and made a swift retreat from his office.

Great. This seemed to be the day for scoldings. Perhaps Reddington had a point about needing a little more lightly from time to time, but her boss's continuing suspicion that she was either compromised or incompetent was oppressive and completely undeserved. For once she was grateful for the overdramatic dimness of the blacksite complex, it gave her a few semi-private moments to find the fraying edges of her temper. There was little to say she'd ever actually done anything wrong, only Red's persistent interest stood against her, and hadn't she rebuffed him often enough? Hadn't she shown her lack of allegiance, her bald animosity towards him? Maybe that animosity had faded but she could hardly be blamed for learning to work with the man who had chosen her as a handler. There was little she could do to combat Cooper and Ressler's suspicion beyond showing up every day and behaving as professionally as she knew how. She had considered confronting Cooper about his prejudice, but she worried it would only make her appear more inexperienced, more like a loose cannon. No, she had to prove herself in some definitive way, with leverage of some kind perhaps. But that didn't soften the sting on days when she got jerked around by Red and then glared at by Cooper. Sometimes she felt like she was bouncing around between the forces of powerful men who had too much control of her life.

* * *

She started with Aram. He was always easy to find, he practically lived at the bank of computers at the main tech desk. He smiled up at her, seeming genuinely happy to see her and Liz relaxed a little for the first time that day.

"I see you got the link Dembe sent alright. Anything new?"

"Not much, just trying to work my way back to the source, as it were. It is definitely credible as Dearborn. He's good, I'll give him that. I am, of course, brilliant, so I expect to get the better of him," he said with exaggerated self confidence which dissolved into a self deprecating grin, "Or anyway, I think so. Whether or not I get to him before the auction… we shall see. But the fridge is well stocked with disgusting, sugary energy drinks, so I'm sanguine."

"I'm sure if I tried to ask you how you were going to do that, it would go right over my head so I won't waste either of our time - But sanguine is good. I'm also going to need some background information on a list of names Reddington handed me today." She handed him one of the copies she'd made of the file. Cooper hadn't strictly asked for this, but she wanted to collect her own data on these guys, not just whatever Meera could get handed over from the Agency. She had a hunch that with decent profiles, she would be able to tell which of them was on Red's blacklist, and that would put her well ahead of the game when they got to that point. She told herself to work out later whether she was trying to impress Cooper or Reddington.

"I'll have my hands full, just at the moment, Cooper says this is priority number one. But Corey can run that down for you, or Mel."

Corey was one of Aram's support team in the tech department, a tall, thin extremely blond man with a rosy Scandinavian face. He was serious and earnest, but awkward when it came to actually talking to the other Agents, and one time early on he had quite sweetly blundered through asking her out for a drink before realizing that she was married. Now he turned painfully red and stuttered when she talked with him, no matter that she'd tried to assure she hadn't been offended, and of course he couldn't have noticed her wedding ring without his glasses in the stupidly underlight company break room. Mel was a petite, perpetually hunched woman of indeterminate age with a mass of extremely curly black hair that she kept ruthlessly tied back, and an equally perpetual wry, sharp look. Mel always seemed to regard her with vague pity, a sort of amused condescension, especially when the subject of Reddington came up, as though there was some terrible thing that Mel knew and she didn't. And it was quite possibly there was, she knew, but it was still off putting. It wasn't really any wonder she prefered to work with Aram when she could.

"Any chance you could hand it off for me? I have to go track down Agent Malik - And I'm always afraid that Corey's going to strain something, the way he freezes up when he sees me."

"He'll get over it eventually," said Aram, "Anyway, I could do with a chance to stretch my legs. They warn you in training these days, you have to remember to get up and move around sometimes, but of course you never actually do. Not if you're in the middle of something." He stood from the desk and sucked the file under his arm.

"Thanks, Aram."

She moved on, deeper into the blacksite, past the incident room, which was abuzz with people setting up the board with all the particulars of the Dearborn case, to the practically deserted back corner of the bullpen where Meera Malik had claimed a desk. Meera was on the phone when Liz came up to her. Liz remained at a respectful distance while she wrapped up the call, knowing that Meera had a much higher clearance level than she did, and it was always best to appear ostentatiously scrupulous about sensitive information. Before too long, Meera put the phone down and waved her over.

"Sorry about that," she said, looking harried, "Just had an update from headquarters. There was a supposed sighting of out guy at JFK this morning, but it turned out to be a false report from a couple of his supporters. Some of those people still think he's a heroic whistleblower."

There were plenty of those. The evolution of the story had been tightly controlled, nobody wanted it getting around that the man was selling sensitive intel, it could cause mass panic. Never mind that most of the information he'd shared to win his status as a whistleblower in the eyes of the public was already pretty well known, it had earned him his share of avid fans. It was a double edged sword, if the truth was known about him, he would surely lose his supporters and he would be far less likely to find harbour, but they couldn't afford the damage it would do.

"That's strange, what were they trying to accomplish?"

"They seem to have been operating under the assumption that if they made up a false lead and created a distraction, the search would focus in the wrong place for a while, opening up other routes of escape. A little naive, really. They claim they weren't acting on anyone's instruction, just their own sense of misguided altruism."

"Do you believe that?" asked Liz.

"Not really, but I can't form an opinion yet. I'm supposed to go up to where they've got these kids and join in on the interrogation, as this team is supposedly on the Dearborn case." She made a moue of frustration and pushed her long bangs out of her face with a sigh, resting forwards against her desk. "You know, I was really looking forward to a quiet Friday night, since we're not really under way yet. But now I've got to go interview a batch of fucking college activists - these things always eat up way more time than their worth." She propped her chin in her hand and looked up at Liz with a tired smile. "Right, I'm willing to bet you came back here for a reason. New information from Red?"

"Yep. He handed me a file with the names of people he thinks are likely to get in on this auction. Cooper wants background on all of them, He thought your agency might already be keeping tabs on them," Liz handed over the other copy of the file.

Meera read through it quickly, a tiny line of concentration between her brows. "I've heard some of these names before. Just let me phone in a request with Davis. And then, what do you say we duck out for a quick bite to eat. I could seriously do with a coffee before i have to head out. And I'm sure the information will be waiting in my inbox by the time we get back." Davis was Meera's liaison back at the main office, he fielded and filed her inquiries so she didn't have to spend all her time shuttling back and forth between her headquarters and the blacksite.

Liz was happy to agree to go to lunch. Three biscuits and a small cup of coffee, no matter how excellent, was not going to tide her over happily til dinner. Especially since once again she'd awoken to urgent messages from work and Red and hat to tear around getting ready, beg Tom to walk the dog before school, and scrounge what breakfast she could before tumbling out the door, a handful of grapes and a piece of toast that she'd eaten in the car.

Now it hardly seemed like all this waiting and vagueness had been worth all the hurrying this morning, but that was how it worked. Get everyone in one place so they can work at small clues and wait around together because it lent at least a semblance of organization. Somehow, she'd expected the FBI to be more advanced, more efficient, less overburdened with procedure. But aside from the security clearance and the violence it wasn't so different than her days profiling with the Baltimore PD. Except for the ways it was so different she might as well be on a another planet - though she tried not to think about those things in the middle of the day of the day or she wouldn't get anything done.

Liz collected her coat and bag from the tiny, dim cubbyhole she called an office and waited out front for Meera. It was half past noon by now and the sun was out, pale gold and bright. Perhaps it wasn't actually warmer that it had been this morning but the light on her face and shoulders made her feel warmer. You couldn't call the DC air fresh by any means but it was easier to breath away from the scrutinizing gaze of her colleagues. The forecast on the radio said it was supposed to turn damp and miserable over the next few days, so Liz was happy to soak up a little fair weather before then. She was hopeful that a brisk walk and adequate sustenance would help her make sense of her interview with Red. She was certain there was something more to what he'd said, if she could just put it together.

Without entirely processing what she did, she got out her phone and pulled up the contact number she had for Red, the curiously named Nick's Pizza line. Someday when they weren't up to their necks in more important matters she would ask him about that one.

"Well, hello my dear, I didn't expect to hear from you so soon," said Reddington straight off upon accepting the call, sounding jovial and off-handed.

"Cooper wasn't exactly thrilled with the intel you gave me - or with the idea to join the bidding," she said and realized she was starting out sounding accusatory and tried to modulate her tone. She wanted information not confrontation, despite herself, she didn't like it when Red got angry with her. "What are you up to with this, Red? I know you made a point before about how you have no interest in cases that don't interest you. So what's interesting about Dearborn? Why get us on this?"

"Oh, very good Lizzy. You're learning to ask the right questions," he said, and she couldn't quite tell if he was teasing or in earnest, but he sounded genuinely pleased.

"yes, well, whatever kind of question it is, would you please just…" flustered, ineffectually, she made a 'yes, and' gesture on the empty sidewalk where he couldn't see over the phone.

"Alright, no need to get worked up," he said lightly, "The truth is, it's hardly my kind of case but it is terribly high profile, and I thought what a feather it would be for your cap, my dear, to catch this man."

Liz swallowed a strangled noise sort of noise to refrain from interrupting.

"I couldn't see what his agenda was, exactly but I'm never against hunting down turncoats with due diligence. And it would be quite a coup for you, perhaps it would make our Harold look at you with a more approving eye."

"A coup," she said faintly, "For me."

"Yes, Lizzy, just so." Here he gave a little sigh, turning more solemn, "But the more closely I look into it, the more certain I feel that there's something darker at work."

"Yes, there's a former government agent trying to sell off classified information for top dollar," she said quite emphatically and then hurriedly checked around her to be sure the street was still empty. There was an older, be-suited man with a briefcase and overcoat crossing at the lights but he was too far off to have overheard. She ducked back into the alcove afforded by the doorway so as to look less conspicuous.

Red scoffed slightly, "well that would seem to be obvious, wouldn't it? But think critically here, Lizzy. Wouldn't you say it seems a little too obvious? the whole setup has a distinct whiff of agenda."

"Agenda," she said flatly, "Are you sure it's not just your own agenda you're detecting? Nothing about this seems obvious. Against all odds, this guy has found some way or someone to hide himself away so well no one has seen hide nor hair of him in five days, he's hardly more than 48 hours from pocketing a wad of cash and disappearing off the face of the earth and we're absolutely nowhere."

"Yes, exactly," he said, sounding satisfied as though she'd just confirmed a theory.

Liz paused and waited for him to continue. This conversation was making her feel like her brain had been replaced with rice pudding.

"You're going to have to help me out here," she said when nothing further was forthcoming.

"Just this morning you were boasting your credentials as a profiler," he said with exaggerated calmness, "So look at his background and read his file. I can get you the full documentation if Harold won't oblige. Does this really fit with Wendell Dearborn's profile? How did he come to this decision? Why this moment? They are very important questions, Lizzy, as I told you before."

Just then the doors behind her opened and Meera stepped out, doing up her coat buttons and looking around for Liz. "There you are. Inquiries have been made and New York doesn't need me just yet so - Oh, sorry," she said, noticing Liz was on her phone and stepped back a but.

"Is that the lovely Agent Malik I hear with you? Tell her I said hello," said Reddington, calling her attention back to the phone call.

Liz wasn't about to be led away on a tangent. "Why couldn't you have brought this up when we talked before? When I was actually there to pick up files?"

"I did bring it up, if you recall. But it was just a suspicion, wholly unsubstantiated. Not for public consumption,"

"But it's been confirmed," she said, realizing. "That phone call you had to take. Speak plainly, Red, what are we talking about here?"

"I'm afraid I can't furnish you with details just yet. You would have to report it to Harold, and he would have to report it to others, and a chain of events would be set into motion. When you have all the facts I'm sure you'll agree that this can't happen yet."

"Why don't you let me decide that," she insisted.

"I'm sorry but you're just going to have to trust me on this," he sounded equally firm, "Now, I'm about to step into a meeting, but I will be be in contact with you, as I said this morning."

Liz tried to protest but it was to a dead line. She pulled the phone away from her ear and ended the call and just stared at the screen for a while, the smug insouciance of the Nick's Pizza caller ID, and remembered how incredibly, if fleetingly, satisfying it had been to stab him all those months ago. He was probably right, because he usually was. Except when he was being deliberately deceptive.

"Call didn't go well, I take it," said Meera, stepping forward to join her again, "You look practically murderous."

Liz collected herself enough to put her phone away and stuff her hands in her pockets. "Let's just get something to eat, okay? I'm too ready to throttle him to talk about it."

Meera shrugged and fell into step beside her. "Fair enough."

* * *

They settled on a little cafe convenient to the blacksite. It sold traditional cafe type fare, with homemade style cooking and a nod toward socially conscious sourcing the way so many little eateries did these days. The air was warmed and humid with tomato-herb-garlic scents wafting from the kitchen. Around lunch time the place was busy enough to be filled with the hum of generic chatter, and this was usually cover enough to obliquely discuss delicate matters without being overheard or understood. Liz was willing to bet that most of the Post Office team came here from time to time. She wondered whether the staff had any idea that some of their regulars were what amounted to secret agents. Probably they just assumed they were more government employees - and in a way they would be perfectly correct.

She gave her coffee and sandwich order to a college girl behind the counter with candy-red hair in looped up in pigtails, a faded carebear printed t-shirt and a young, open face, and she held herself steady through a sensation of cognitive dissonance. Normal person, she thought, from the normal person job-and-paycheck, tv-watching and coffee-date world. She remembered that world, vaguely.

By the time she and Meera were served their food, Liz was in a much saner frame of mind. When Meera broached the subject of her interview with Reddington, she felt able to divulge her suspicions.

"It seemed like Red was edging his way around saying he thinks someone is pulling Dearborn's strings. Possibly set up the timing and got him to turn somehow. Probably using their resources to hide him, or get him out of the country. It's a theory with legs, I think, at the very least he's got to have someone more powerful hiding him."

"It's the only thing that makes sense, really, Dearborn's got to be receiving aid and shelter from someone. At first we thought it could be Assange or his people, but that wasn't borne out by the evidence. And Dearborn's recent money grubbing would probably offend Assange's view of himself as a moral activist." Meera made a face of distaste.

"I think it's more than aid and shelter, though. And it it's true, if Dearborn has been sponsored from the beginning by some unknown figure then this could be part of some other agenda that's not Dearborn's." she frowned and crumpled up her napkin, not liking the sound of that.

"Is this your theory or Reddington's?" asked Meera with a measuring look.

"Oh, not you too. Look, it's not like he's got me in his thrall or anything. I just got caught up in this, like the rest of you, when he showed up at the FBI. I'm no Jodie Foster, okay? Or Julianne Moore, even. I'm not going to play that role for him."

"Oh, I know that," said Meera, unruffled, "You wouldn't go around half so often looking angry bewildered if you really were Red's plant. I don't know why the other's can't see that."

The bewildered commend stung a bit, but it was true enough. "Well, thank god for that. I really don't know how else I can prove myself as genuine."

"What I meant was that Red has a knack for manipulation, and it wouldn't be the first time he's sent us down the wrong trail. And it wouldn't be the first time he's put onto something that he's actually involved in up to his eyeballs," she paused to drink some of her coffee, "Are you going to eat your pickle?"

"My-? No, you're welcome to it."

Liz thought back again, trying to asses for cues of subterfuge from Red, and while she was certain he has something brewing, she believed him on the Dearborn theory. At least provisionally. "He doesn't like turncoats, he said, he doesn't like what Dearborn is doing." And in he'd actually sounded slightly worried, there at the end of the phone call. Not obviously, but there was a subtle strain in his voice, a seriousness. Liz decided to keep that to herself until she better understood what it meant. "I'm satisfied for the moment that he's not involved."

Meera agreed readily enough although Liz was sure that she was still privately reserving judgement. Smart woman.

"Anyway, enough about your pet most wanted criminal." Meera reached across and plucked the pickle from Liz's plate with a flourish. "What say you, when this case is over we get up a petition to get them to run the heat more often at the Post Office. I don't know about your office, but a few hours in my back corner and my fingers just about freeze."

As they finished their quick lunch, Liz felt as though the air had cleared between them a little. Meera was a bold, strange woman compared with the friends Liz had had once upon a time before her transfer to the FBI and move, but she seemed like a good person and was one of only two people at work who did think she was compromised. That was enough to endear her to Liz a hundred times over.

* * *

By the time they got back to the blacksite, the details of the auction hand been posted. It was something like a silent auction. An email address, presumably one time use and connected to dummy identities, would be posted 15 minutes before the set time of the bidding and all participating parties were to send in their best offer and within minutes of the auction's end the winner would be contacted with further information about how to collect their merchandise. It was efficient, with minimal contact to be traced. WIth such a short time, Liz hoped somebody was reconsidering the fallback plan of winning the bid themselves.

But all of this was no longer foremost on her mind. She detoured through the incident room and leafed through the files on the staging table. She came away with Dearborn's NSA file (partially redacted), his FBI file (mostly intact), his background check from the time of his hiring, his employment dossier from the Agency (mostly redacted but still perhaps useful) and a copy of his financials. She found herself casting furtive glances over her shoulder and told herself sternly to stop. There was nothing half so noticeable as someone looking furtive. She wasn't entirely sure why she was trying to do this covertly, but still managed to slip away without attracting anyone's eye.

Shut in her tiny, dim office she hastily shoved aside half finished paper work and settled in with her files. Unlike Meera's desk in the back room, Liz's office was often toasty warm, and when the door was closed for any real period it verged on desert hot. She soon rid herself of her jacket and twisted her hair back into a springy clip to get it off her neck. She sat with the smells of dust-dry furnace air and fresh printer ink and absorbed the institutional summary of Wendell Dearborn's life. Then she turned on her laptop and did her own searches.

She began assembling a profile on the man, keeping it on her own hard drive rather than the company server and once again asked herself why she was acting with such paranoia. It was a long process, searching the actions of a person and working backwards to a picture of their motives. She worked with the perhaps over-painstaking care that had been trained into her in the academy, edging around the feeling of an intuitive leap that lurked somewhere in her mind. Before she knew it, it was well into the evening and time for the end of day team meeting in the incident room to brief and regroup. Through it all she had the growing conviction that none of his actions of the last two weeks were anywhere in Dearborn's profile.

She gathered her notes and files and laptop into her briefcase rather than leave them in her office, and headed to the meeting. Technically she shouldn't be taking be taking the files out of the building, but she didn't intend for anyone to see them, and she wanted to be able to check them against whatever files Red gave her to see if there were any discrepancies.

She brought up her theory at the briefing which sent a murmur through the room but didn't get much traction. She was torn on whether to say that Red had helped to point her in that direction, not sure if that would hurt or help her credibility. She admitted to it when talking to Cooper after the meeting, and was rewarded with another of his sternly calculating looks.

"You could have mentioned this when you briefed me this afternoon,"

"I wanted to do my own research first," she said, choosing to leave aside all the other details of her fraught communication with Red.

Cooper accepted this with a nod, "Reddington is the one who got us on this case, I want you to make it clear to him that if he doesn't produce some kind of actionable intel by the end of day tomorrow, it will be too late to be of use to the joint task force on Dearborn, and we'll move on to other matters. No need to keep wasting manpower on a case that's already being investigated if our informant has nothing useful to offer," he told her and sent her off for the day.

* * *

It was dark and beginning to rain by the time she pulled out of the parking garage. It was a heavy, splatting rain that was mixed with mostly melted snow, and it boded ill for Hudson's nighttime walk. She was more than tempted to drive back out of the city and bother Red again about the files and profiles, but he had seemed fairly insistent that he was busy. She wasn't in a hurry to blunder into another strange situation would probably put a foot wrong again. It was all very well of him to tell her to develop a sense of sang froid, he'd lived through all sorts of situations strange and deadly - and the file likely only scratched the surface there. He'd have gotten over the freaking out stage years ago, probably he didn't even remember what it was like.

So she went home. Tom would be home by then, he would likely have something lined up for dinner, too. he'd been very attentive after her father's death, casting lots of quietly concerned glances her way, lot of patient kindness, and a reiteration of his whole-hearted forgiveness over the debacle of the box and the interrogation. It was verging on claustrophobic, his persistent solicitousness. It felt over-eager, like he was papering over all their issues and moving on as if it had been months since the crisis and they'd already hashed it all out - but they'd never even had a full blown argument over their mutual suspicions, she had simply gotten swallowed by work, he'd never brought it up, and then there's been her father. But he's been so good to her on the trip out for the funeral. He was being so good to her now. Making the effort to have dinner with him for once would help to appease the guilt.

The brownstone was warm and bright when she got in. Hudson wound around her legs and snuffled at her hands as she shed her outdoor things and dropped her keys on the hall table. She scratched his wiry head and stroked his silky ears and murmured nonsense to him, and asked him if he'd been good, if Tom'd been good, if he'd already had his walkies. Of course he just stared up with sweet brown eyes and wagged happily at the attention.

"Okay, let me through, alright," she sent him off with a pat.

She took a moment to tuck her briefcase with all it's important documents into the hall closet behind the storage tub of winter boots and again didn't ask herself fully why. Then she went off to find her husband.

Tom was in the little breakfast nook off the kitchen that he used as an office. He was working his way through a stack of large font reports clipped to marker and coloured pencil drawings backed with primary coloured tag board. She hadn't anticipated the way living with an elementary school teacher would surprise her on a regular basis with pricks of nostalgia, of longing of the bold, tender child life that was so long gone from her, and longing for a scene she often imagined, sitting down with her child, home from school in the cool gloaming, with homework spread around them, of walking by and stroking his soft, studious head on her way to make dinner.

Tom was bent forward over the table that was his desk, with his sleeves rolled back, his shoulders round, his face in shadow. He looked studious himself, artless and absorbed. This is the man I married, she said to herself, this is the person I know.

The kitchen smell of sauted onion and garlic and spices and the floral-papery scent of cooking rice. A covered pan sat on the stove, curry she guessed, by the smell, Indian chicken curry she amended when she checked under the lid. Tom always made it a little too mild, but it would be filling and warm, and she was almost on time. She was making an effort.

"Hi, Tom," she said, finally ready to catch his attention.

He blinked dozily up at her and smiled, "You're home early," he glanced at the big round wall clock in the corner, "Well, earlier than i thought. Days that start with urgent phone call, usually you're gone into the night."

"Yep. This one is all urgency, no intel. There's nothing to do yet, so we get to go home for now."

"Well, I'm glad. You're working so hard, babe. All this stress. You'd tell me, right, if it was something like, world endingly big you guys were working on?" He put the cap back on his red teacher pen and leaned back with a long armed stretch, and tilted his head to look at her wryly.

"Not the end of the world, I promise," she said. Just the turning upside down of hers, and a couple of demanding cases. "Just regular bad guys doing bad things."

"I bet dinner's ready, I was just waiting on the cauliflower getting tender." He scooted around her into the kitchen leaned in to kiss her temple as he went by. She held herself still to receive this affection.

"You want wine?" he asked as he pulled the pan off the heat.

"Not tonight," she retreated to another part of the kitchen, getting out the plates from the cupboard, "I've got a report to write later."

They ate dinner quietly, Liz with little attention paid to the food as she watched her husband across from her and wished she would stop trying to find clues, of something, in his every gesture. There was nothing significant in the way he cut his meat or added plain yogurt to his curry and basmati rice. So stop it, Liz.

After dinner Tom made himself a cup of tea and set himself back to work. His 'homework' he used to call it with a dopey grin and she'd roll her eyes. Instead of settling at the dining table, which was in full view of the kitchen, she took herself off upstairs with her briefcase. She had a room upstairs that was in a state of suspended transition between being her office and the room they had begun to ready for their future child. They'd never gotten further than beginning to box her old books and files and disassembling her bookcase, and now there were stacks of boxes from her father's house along one wall. It was a large room, meant for a bedroom, but made cramped by all the clutter. She avoided the stack of books in the middle of the room and settled in at the desk. It was her father's old desk chair she sat in now. The big leather, swiveling one she remembered spinning around in with her toes when she was very small, and seeing him sit in as he asked her about her school work, and despatched warnings and concern fromduring that rocky period in junior high when she kept getting into fights with the girls who picked on her and the boys to tried to flirt with her. The padding of the venerable old chair was a little flat, the leather soft and worn, but it still held the faint hint of her father's cologne.

She lit her desk lamp, turning the street-lit outside world beyond the window black and flat. She drew the blinds and curtain closed, feeling furtive again, aware of her illuminated room. Then she settled down with her profile and her report until the thought that had been nagging her all day finally bloomed. What if the reason this series of actions didn't fit with his profile, more than his being a pawn of a more powerful figure, was that they weren't his actions at all. What if, rather than being leveraged or enticed, he was coerced. Forced. Maybe even taken hostage. No one had seen him for days after all. Darker forces, Red had said, and he'd sounded concerned. She couldn't fathom a motive for it, not yet, but still, the theory grew in her, the leap had been made. She leaned back and let herself get lost in thought, mapping out the question to ask Red in the morning.


End file.
